Fireworks
by endlessmuse
Summary: After a rather disappointing evening with Lord Gillingham, Lady Mary runs into a familiar face. The force from the encounter will drastically change how both individuals see themselves and each other. Sir Richard/Mary. Sir Richard's POV.
1. Chapter 1

The Criterion Restaurant bustled with activity, despite it being an evening in the workweek. To the less-practiced eye, one would simply see couples, families, friends all gathered together at tables, eating and drinking. They would not be able to distinguish a specific conversation among the loud chatter and clattering of table utensils, nor over the loud jazz band that played on a raised platform, squashed in the corner of the main room of the restaurant. Yet a single man saw more. This man was smoking his favorite cigar, La Aroma de Cuba, which also happened to be the favorite of one Winston Churchill.

Though a cloud of smoke settled around the gentleman, his intense pair of ice blue eyes cut through the haze easily. He knew these people. They were his people. Being a newspaper magnate made him the proprietor of information. He didn't just _report_ news. He _made_ news. At the end of the day, it was up to him on who received attention in his papers. He could create and destroy celebrities, politicians, socialites, nobility. If there was ever a more appropriate exemplar of the adage, "the pen is mightier than the sword," it would be Sir Richard Carlisle.

It was this gentleman who looked on the room of high-class citizens dining and knew them all by face or name . . . or reputation. But there was one in the room he knew better than all. Lady Mary Crawley sat at a table not far from his. He had noticed her immediately, much as he had the first time they had met at Cliveden. As if her presence was something his mind and body unconsciously knew as if it were his own, he honed in on her the second she appeared. Honestly, it was a tad irritating. It had been three years since he had last seen her, and he had rather hoped to keep that gap growing.

Yet, here she was, a few tables from him . . . completely unaware of his existence. Really, it felt like they were engaged again. Sir Richard had long since mourned over his one and only love and returned to the life he excelled in. Being an eligible bachelor had its merits, after all. There was certainly no lack of interested women. This was also the new reign of the Modern Era. The 1920s had heralded a resurgence of life and progression. Many old, conservative families had found themselves without money or power at the start of the new social revolution. Their time was over. The world now existed for Richard's people. The Modern men and women of the world. And they were starting it with a party.

Looser skirts, higher hems, more skin, more flash, louder music, closer dancing, harder alcohol. Reputations were being traded in for life, and Richard was collecting. Yes, life was going very well . . . and now here was Lady Mary, looking quite uncertain in this new world that surrounded her. Sir Richard recalled how abysmally bored she had looked at Cliveden. Then, it had been the function and the people who had nearly driven her to an early retiring for the evening. Though Richard could not clearly see her all of her features, he noticed the strained pull of her lips and tense shoulders. She was, once more, abysmally bored. Though he could not chalk this up to the function, so it had to be . . . people.

It was then that Sir Richard noticed the gentleman who had brought her into the restaurant. He knew the man by face, name and reputation. Anthony Foyle. Or, Lord Gillingham, as his title bespoke. Though that was really all the man had. Richard had edited the article about Foyle's family and estate. Whatever was Mary doing with a pauper like him? He highly doubted her father approved . . . though if Richard had learned anything, it was that Lord Grantham cared more for a title than money. As impractical as that was.

So, here the newspaper magnate sat, smoking quietly at his table whilst his associates laughed and gossiped around him. If his distracted attention was noticed, they were either too drunk or too absorbed in their own stories to care. He really should just leave her be. They had parted on as amicable of terms as could be had in a situation like that. Mary was something toxic to him. She had somehow inspired great ardent feelings in him where no other woman had done before. And she had turned him into a foolish, jealous brute that he admitted to being, but otherwise despise about himself.

More importantly, she had hurt him.

Sir Richard played a careful game. His newspaper, thus far, was the controlling news publishing in London and throughout the British Empire. He'd come from rags and dirt floors to rich business suits and silk sheets. All of it had been done through grunt, teeth-clenching work. Every week day, he worked. Oftentimes, he left for his office before the sun rose and only returned to his home long after the sun had set. Sometimes, he didn't leave his office at all. Through that consistent, back-breaking effort, he had created an empire. And like all empires, they could eventually be destroyed. Sir Richard knew the game. Reputations danced at his fingertips, but it was a double-edged sword. His own life had to be spotless, if he wanted to continue his credible reporting. Yes, he was a self-described womanizer, but he was hardly the worse, and he was hardly the only. More importantly, men of his status and wealth were able to get around it. On some level, it was even expected. On another, it was quite accepted.

Because of this strain, Sir Richard had also found it difficult to make a meaningful connection with a woman. They were often interested in him for his money, or the fact that he could make them very famous, indeed. Though he was most certainly a Modern man, he still rather believed in the old concept of love. He just also believed that love with additional benefits was more of a practical fit. Enter Lady Mary Crawley. True, his initial interest had merely been one of legacy. She could offer him plenty that he could not otherwise gain on his own, thanks to his common blood. But ever the observant man that he was, he slowly began to _see_ Mary through their irregular visits. He recognized a thirst in her that he had seen in himself. She was starving for _more._

And then she went the opposite of more and married her cousin instead. It still baffled him. Yet it wasn't something he thought of much anymore. He had done something he had not done before. He had fallen in love with her. At forty years of age, he had tasted the sweet fruit of love, only to find after he had bitten into it, that it was sour. It had taken him some time to heal. He saw her engagement announcement to Matthew Crawley announced in his own paper, and then her eventual marriage as well. Her scandalous story remained locked away in his desk. He had thought about publishing it many times.

It only seemed fitting. She had hurt him. Him! He, who was supposed to be impenetrable, sharp steel. She had wounded. He wanted to wound back. But he did not. As the new year of 1922 came to toasts and cheers, Sir Richard had burned all the notes he had made of the scandal. Since then, he had returned to what he did best—work. It was his life once more. Work and the occasional dalliance. It had been good. He was good.

Yet, there she was.

Sir Richard Carlisle reached for his glass of whiskey. Letting it swirl in his glass, he watched as Lord Gillingham rose with an apologetic smile and left the table. Richard watched him leave the room, wondering. Well then. If there was ever a moment . . .

It seemed his feet were miles ahead of his mind. With the lasting taste of whiskey on his tongue, Sir Richard found himself walking towards Mary's table, his empty glass of whiskey left behind with his associates who only glanced at his retreating form. Dressed in his formal wear, Sir Richard became quite aware that he was in a similar suit when Mary had broken off their engagement. Ah well. History. He was a man restored to pure confidence now. In fact, he felt more self-assured and comfortable than ever. Perhaps their break up had actually been a blessing in disguise.

His hand passed over the silk of his shirt, and then swept up into his sandy-laced-with-white hair, smoothing it back. Mary still did not see him. She sat as properly as she could at the table, looking over at the band. Sir Richard cleared his throat, standing just behind her.

"Hello, Mary."


	2. Chapter 2

Curiously, he observed her shoulders tense further as recognition obviously flared. Her hair, far shorter than he knew, lightly shifted as she turned her neck gracefully to gaze upon him. "Sir Richard," Lady Mary, surprise carefully hidden under well-practiced indifference. "This _is_ a surprise."

Quickly, he ran his gaze over her properly. Perhaps it was improper of him to think so, but she looked . . . older. The smallest sign of wrinkles were clinging just under her eyes at the corners. Much of the remaining baby chub in her face had given way to womanly curves as well. She looked older. But had she really grown older? His thin lips pressed into a smile at last, and he held his hand out to her. "I don't think anyone is more surprised than myself," he replied. He watched her stare at his bare hand, then slowly reach out and place her gloved one in his own. Lowering his head, he turned his wrist, so her palm ended up facing upwards, and he pressed his lips to her wrist in greeting.

Releasing her hand, he saw amusement glittering in her dark eyes. "You never did learn to do that properly. Still a barbarian, I see."

The familiarity of their banter was refreshing and comforting. "On the contrary. I never understood why rules should dictate where I wish to kiss a woman." Richard felt a satisfying tug when he saw her cheeks flush. "May I?" he gestured to the empty chair. Mary cast an anxious look back at the door, and then nodded. "Thank-you," he said courteously and sat down. "I can imagine this isn't your first time being in London since the incident. Yet it is the first time we've run into one another . . . despite running in similar circles."

Mary was raising her wine glass to her lips, but she paused. "Yes, well, you must excuse my bluntness by admitting I wasn't exactly looking for you."

Perhaps that should have stung. Perhaps one time it might have. Instead, Richard smiled, the dimples forming charmingly in his cheeks. This was the Mary he knew. Careful, cold and cutting. He had admired those features in her. Particularly when she had directed them at someone he rather disliked or held little patience for. "Excuse my curtness by adding that I never looked for you either," he said, a twinkle of sharp mirth in his eye.

"Good," Mary replied, setting her glass down after she had taken her sip. "I'm pleased to know neither of us were looking for the other." Richard made a humming noise in agreement. Then they paused, staring. The silence had always been present in their relationship. Sometimes it was comfortable, most times it was a battle to see who would dare speak first. Mary relented this time. "You seem well."

"Quite," Richard replied, reclining in the seat comfortably. It was one of his gifts . . . wherever he was, he made the area surrounding him look as though he owned it. "Business is growing faster than ever. I've set foot in America after a rather nasty war with one William Hearst. I'm looking into joining forces with the BBC as well. Radio is going to be the next great thing, Mary, you mark my words. I'll be among the first to cash in when it hits." It would change the news world completely. There were some traditionalists who scoffed at this new radio invading their homes and reporting the news and playing songs. There were even some newspaper proprietors who didn't believe that radio would replace the newspaper. Richard was not among these. He was keen to trends and changing mediums. If he wanted to keep his fortune growing, he needed to be ready to adapt. To stay alive, was to change. It was a lesson he knew well. It was this lesson that he believed separated him from much of Mary's circle.

"I can't say my life has been poor," he continued. "It's been fast, certainly."

"Mm," Mary nodded. "Indeed, it has. Three years now . . . I believe?" A brief sadness appeared in her eyes. Richard could guess why. "Three years . . . It feels more like ten. That time at Downton seems almost like a dream now. A dream that happened to someone else, and I was merely privy to."

She seemed unsure and quite tired all of a sudden. Richard knew he could be cruel here. He could tell her that fate had obviously not agreed with her decision to marry Matthew. He could say that he'd had it coming, seducing another man's woman right from under him whilst promised to another woman, himself. He could say that her misery was appropriate payment for the embarrassment, pain and more than half a decade he had spent on her. It wasn't even the money he had spent on her that had bothered him. Money was just a trifle. There was always more money. But he had spent the better part of five years believing that he was going to build a family and home with her. But the anger was no longer there. The man was dead, and it had taken its toll on Mary. She had suffered just as much as he had . . . burying their love.

Instead, he stated simply, "we can talk about him. I may not have been the most gentlest of men, but I'm not completely without reason . . . or sympathy."

Mary eyed him then, trying to read him. She likely wondered if this was some sort of undercover interview for a story. Eventually, her shoulders relaxed just a little, and she said quietly, "I'm sure you saw that Matthew passed away." Richard nodded. "Car accident. Ridiculous, really. On the day our son was born, too." She smiled then. "His name is George."

Richard smiled at that as well. "Patriotic of you."

"Yes, well . . . you know the Crawleys," she gave a subtle roll of her eyes. "I was lost for a time. I've been married . . . given birth to a child . . . and widowed. All in three years. I've lived a lifetime already." She paused then. Richard understood the hint of wrinkles, and the faraway gaze. Some part of her was still lost. "It took a long time to mourn . . . and to move on." She tilted her chin upwards, and he was pleased to see that familiar stubbornness setting in her jaw. "I've returned to courting. A whole line of suitors, I might add," she added with a trace of that arrogance he'd known well.

"I saw," Richard replied. "Lord Gillingham, hm? I heard he called off his engagement recently . . . I now understand why." Mary didn't give anything away. Smart girl. "It would seem you are a woman who makes men capable of moving mountains . . . all for a chance of your attention. He must be passionate if he acted so quickly to throw off his fiancée."

"Hmf," Mary tilted her head and reached for her glass of wine once more. "Passionate. In word, yes. In deed . . ." she trailed off, her cheeks staining pink when she realized how loose her lips had become and promptly stopped drinking her wine as well.

"Dear me," Richard seized on that juicy detail immediately. "Lady Mary . . . you _have_ changed in three years."

She glared at him. "Don't you dare—"

"Passionless in bed? Or simply without skill?" Richard inquired immediately.

Mary held up her hand. "No. I am not discussing the matter with you. You're a hawker. More than that, you're a pass dalliance, and it's hardly appropriate."

"Dalliance? You never gave me enough time to be a dalliance," Richard pointed out. "In fact, I think we've said more in this span of fifteen minutes than we did our entire engagement."

Mary froze at that, becoming decidedly interested in staring at her napkin on the table. "You were always in London. Working. I couldn't very well gab on the phone with you for hours and hours."

"Mary," Richard said sternly, and her eyes returned to his. "We were never able to talk and connect because you didn't want to give us the time to do so. I was eager to learn about you. Carry the weight of your world. I was prepared to show you the excitement of my own." Mary looked as though she were about to interrupt, and he quickly lifted his hand to make her pause. "You were in love with Matthew. I know," he added quietly. "I understand that you could not have loved me or anyone else so long as Matthew was alive, somewhere, out there." Mary nodded, giving a small smile.

Between them, he felt the tension relax. If there—for lack of better word—relationship had been fragmented, it was now patched. A comfortable silence stretched between them, and Richard glanced at the doors Lord Gillingham had disappeared through. Mary noticed his glance. "He was called away. He said he'd only be gone for a half hour, at the most."

Richard scoffed. "Foolish man . . . leaving Lady Mary unattended for so long in a room full of suitors. You never did say what his issue was. Did he pop too early? Not understand where to poke?" he asked, a roguish smirk growing more and more on his lips as the look of alarm intensified on her face.

"Sir Richard!" she hissed. "That is . . . this is hardly the place for such talk!"

"Why?" Richard asked, lifting an eyebrow. "No one can hear us in this din. You poor thing, this is likely the most exciting conversation you've had in some time." The smirk flitted quickly across his lips before he returned to the stoic stare he was best known for.

"Is that so?" Mary lifted her eyebrow this time. "Before your ego inflates to the width of this room, perhaps I've shared many exciting conversations this past week alone."

"Mm," Richard nodded. "If that were the case, I wouldn't have seen you about to fall asleep into your wine glass whilst sitting with your Lord Gillingham. Admit it, Mary, he's boring."

She stiffened in her chair, then adjusted whilst looking away from him. "Perhaps . . . Perhaps it wasn't as . . . exciting . . . as I thought it was going to be," she admitted finally in a whisper. "I think sneaking around had more allure than the act itself." With that on the table, she quickly grabbed her glass of wine and resumed sipping from it. After she had taken a healthy dose, she continued. "There wasn't any spark . . . hardly any heat."

Richard lifted his chin at that. "Well, Mary." She looked up at him. "We've certainly never lacked for fireworks." She gave a deep, throaty laugh at that. His lips pulled into a smile as well. He'd made her laugh like that a few times before at Cliveden. They had been fire and ice. Stone and steel. They were the things worlds were made out of. Before he knew it, silly words were being pushed from his lips. "You can do better than him, you know. Don't settle, Mary. You're greater than that."

She gave a small sigh at that. "I must be. I killed a man during it, after all."

"Mmm," Richard made a noise akin to pleasure, though he was teasing. "You know just how to put a man in the mood."

"Yes," Mary agreed. "Of that, I have never lacked." There was a moment then. A silent understanding passed between them. It left the both of them rather surprised. Richard stared at her for a long moment, and she equally back at him. Yes, equally. This woman had always been his equal. She could challenge him in ways he'd never been challenged before, and he knew he could do the same for her. Their entanglement would not be a safe one.

Smoothly, he rose and looked down at her. "Should you find yourself free from Lord Gillingham, do stop by my office. I'm sure you remember its address?" Mary nodded, suddenly looking quite flustered, though she was quick to control the reaction. "Good. But only if you're free of him. I really don't share anymore, Mary." Richard bowed his head to her, then with precise steps returned to his table. At some point, though he did not know when exactly, Lord Gillingham returned to the table.

Though they sat on opposite ends of the building, Richard and Mary remained perfectly aware of each other's presence. They never once looked at one another again, but Richard knew precisely when Mary had left the restaurant with Lord Gillingham. It was an absence he felt keenly.

And he hated himself for it.


	3. Chapter 3

The pattering of rain against the window was the only sound in the office of Sir Richard Carlisle that late afternoon. It was nearly time to close up shop for the evening, and so he was going over tomorrow's morning paper one last time with a fine-tooth comb. Already, he had found two grammatical errors that he had missed the first time. Marking them, he continued on, his brow furrowed in stern concentration. When one expected perfection, one had to put in the time and sheer nose-to-the-grindstone work. This carefully crafted concentration was soon broken when there was a light rapping at his door. The smallest trace of irritation laced his voice as he called out, "yes?"

The door opened, and his secretary popped her head in. "Sir Richard, a Lady Mary Crawley is here to see you."

Surprise flittered across his face at this news. It had been four days since he'd spoken with her at the Criterion Restaurant. He had thought she had chosen to remain with simplicity. After all, Mary had turned out to be quite the creature of habit. Though she craved adventure, she clung to the familiar. How intriguing . . . "Send her in," Richard said finally, setting his pen down on his desk. He rose from his chair as Mary walked in—all velvet and fur—and greeted her. "Lady Mary," he greeted formally, taking her hand in his and kissing it properly.

She lifted an eyebrow at that. "You're all business today. Where's your boldness now? I certainly hope I haven't stolen it all away with my appearance."

Richard's lip pulled up into a smirk at that. "If this is business, I try to do my very best with manners and propriety." He gestured for her to sit down in the chair in front of his desk, and then sat on the edge of his desk himself, instead of reclaiming his former seat. "Is that what this is? Are you here for business . . . or pleasure?" he asked, his chin lifting curiously.

"Always to the heart of the matter with you," Mary said, removing her scarf and hat and setting them on her lap nicely. "For a writer, you certainly don't have an appreciation for the romanticism of words."

"I work in fact, Mary, not fiction. I'm the Prince of Prose, not Poetry," Richard stated. "If you wish for passionate words, look in on any club. There's a score of men eager to whisper such nonsense into your ear. But that is all they will ever do. Whisper." His lip pulled into another smirk. "That was something you never quite understood . . . There were men prepared to speak to you about the moon and June . . . I was prepared to give it to you." He was referring, of course, to the pearl engagement ring he had given to her. One that resided in his nightstand drawer now, as she had not wished to keep it.

"Mm. Yes, you were prepared to buy me a house and new dresses and lovely jewelry . . . but you never understood, Richard," Mary looked at him directly, and he listened curiously. "A woman needs words sometimes. Even those as seemingly cold and emotionally-impenetrable as myself. Our engagement felt like a business contract, not one of love or even passion." She shrugged a delicate shoulder. "Can you blame me for seeking warmth from someone I knew was capable of producing heat?"

His head lowered at that. It was a failing he had thought long on. Emotion had never been his strong suit. As he had just said, he worked in prose, not poetry. It certainly wasn't because he didn't feel. He felt keenly. Just expression of that feeling was a failing. When one lived so carefully guarded for one's entire life, it was incredibly difficult to express to the point that was easily detectable to others. Trust was a whole another issue entirely. "I had rather hoped my gifts would be understood as tokens of my genuine affection. But . . ." he worked his jaw uncomfortably, "I suppose I can understand where you might have missed their meaning."

Mary seized on his momentary vulnerability. "I didn't love you. And so I could not marry you. I don't love you now either," she added, giving him a scolding look, as if he had suggested such a thing.

Richard barely concealed a snort. "I don't love you either. How convenient."

"And I certainly don't think I shall ever love you," she added. "You're uncouth, immoral and brutish."

"Believe me, Mary, I've learned my lesson. I shant be falling in love with you ever again. You're self-absorbed, snobbish and you've a pole up your arse so long, it's a wonder it's not jutting out from your mouth," he replied in kind.

Her mouth dropped open at that. "How dare you!? I came here to tell you that I've finally put Lord Gillingham off, but I am beginning to think I prefer his coos to your jibes." She was sitting up stiffly, but she had not yet risen to leave.

"Coos will leave you soft and warm," Richard agreed, nodding. "But you don't love him either. If you did, you'd have swallowed down the bitter pill that your lover isn't that skilled and kept him, anyway. Practice can go a long way. But jibes . . . jibes leave you angry and hot." He slid off of his desk in a smooth motion. His hands slipped into his trouser pockets, and he moved slowly around the back of her chair. "Let's be honest with ourselves, Mary. Sex is better with a bit of pain involved."

To his satisfaction, he saw a blush crawling its way up her neck. She obviously wished to hide it, for she casually wrapped her scarf around her neck once more. "I don't like you," she told him simply.

"Well, that's the brilliant thing about sex . . . We don't have to like each other at all," he said quietly, then reached her side and drew her up from her chair. She eyed him warily, her hat falling to the floor between them. "We just have to want each other." Sharp features pulled into a smile. "Or, at the very least, want to hurt one another badly enough to take from each other."

"This hardly sounds enjoyable," Mary said, her voice deeper than usual. She was likely attempting to cover the waver in her voice, though the trepidation was clear in her eyes. "Or even anything close to propriety."

"No," Richard nodded. "But I don't think you're looking for love or propriety. You've had both. Now it's time for something . . . new."

Her eyebrow raised. The tension between them was an inexhaustible tug-of-war. A challenge met and a challenge set. It was all they knew how to be with one another. The rain continued to hit the window harder. A storm was brewing. A cold front fusing with a hot front. And so it was that a cold pair of lips fused with a hot pair of lips. Lightning crackled, from both within and without. The roar of thunder soon followed, though it was deafened by the blood pounding in his ears.

A typewriter fell off of the desk . . .


	4. Chapter 4

Whether the typewriter broke or not, Richard was unaware, and at the moment, could not conceive a single care. He was kissing Mary, and for the first time in his life, he was lost in the sensation of her kissing him back. Richard had been curious as to how she kissed since he first touched her hand. So cold . . . he had wondered if there was any heat to be found in those lips. He was surprised and pleased to find that it was so. Her mouth carried a desperation that matched his, her teeth lightly latching onto his upper lip. The rough texture forced a growl from his lips, and he hoisted her up on his desk, the rest of his materials falling to the floor soon after.

Harsh pants passed between them, heat engulfing in an increasing inferno. Richard broke from her lips to attach himself to her neck. A great tremor ran through Mary as his teeth and lips worked into the very crook of her neck, the spot heavy with her perfume. Each swipe of his tongue and nibble of his teeth had her gasping and jerking against him. Richard felt her hesitant hands finally grip around his shoulders, her fingers burying into the fabric of his jacket. He was never more appreciative of the new fashions than this moment. The cut of the dresses allowed for so much skin to be exposed, and thus victim of his explorative mouth.

Though if Mary's soft moans were anything to go by, her skin was a very willing victim. His teeth latched onto her neck, and he bit onto her, a low growl rising up from his chest. Perhaps it was primitive of him, but he needed to leave her with a mark. The responding cry from her lips and buck of her hips against him told him she didn't mind. Sucking over the bite mark, he pulled away and inspected the rapidly forming bruise. Good.

Mary obviously thought she had given too much away, for she soon took charge. Her hands dropped to his belt, and her hands worked quickly at undoing it. Then, rather boldly, she unzipped his pants and shoved her hand inside. Richard's measured stare met her challenging one as she gripped him. His jaw tightened, his sharp features questioning—and slightly wary. After all, she was handling rather valuable merchandise. Richard felt the heat of her palm as she gripped his cock and boldly gave it a firm stroke. A guttural exhale of breath left him, betraying him. Her eyes shone victoriously. Richard set his teeth harder, hardening further under her teasing strokes.

When the pressure of being restrained in his trousers became almost too painful, she pulled him out of those restraints. Hissing ever so slightly as the cool air met him, he gripped her wrists in his hands and forced them down on his desk. "Keep those there," he told her, his voice calm but with an underlying steel sternness, "or this will end very quickly." Mary glared at him, but she kept her hands against the top of his desk, leaning back ever so slightly.

With patient, self-assured hands, Richard reached under her dress. His fingers pressed against the smooth skin, tracing over the grooves in her kneecap. This body would be one he'd need to know intimately. That he planned on knowing as well as he knew his own body. But not now. He knew Mary was waiting for him to prove his worth. She couldn't, after all, be stuck with another Gillingham. The sound of their labored breathing was the only noise in the office . . . for now. Except, of course, for the rain pelting the window.

His gaze reached up and settled on hers. A question was asked. An answer was given. His fingers moved up to her knickers, and he slid them down her legs with a violent tug, nearly tearing them in half. "Richard!" she gasped, giving him a scolding look. "I'll have you know, those cost me a pretty pen—"

"They didn't," Richard interrupted. "And there are always more." His fingers touched her thigh, and noticing the anxious look in her eyes, he quietly massaged this spot for a few, until the look disappeared. Then he pressed his palm against her core, pleased to find a surprising amount of wetness meeting his skin. Mary released a heavy breath, her arms twitching, as if she wanted to move them. Richard kept his gaze locked with hers, and he rubbed his palm against her, grinding into her heat. She arched, her hips involuntarily moving against him to increase the stimulation.

"Hm," Richard smiled in satisfaction, taking a moment to stroke his fingers along her clit. Mary cried out in surprise, her entire body jumping. "Intriguing," he whispered. It was a silly question to ask if Mary had ever touched herself. A more pressing concern was if no one had ever given her little sensitive bundle of nerves the time of day. Well, no matter. He was here now. Richard withdrew his hand from under her dress, and Mary made a breathy grunting sound, her legs opening instinctively.

Wrapping his arm around her waist, he kept her secured, and then bunched her dress up to her hips. Stepping in place, he hovered, the head of his cock touching her folds and feeling just how hot she was. Mary's face was feverish, a pink flush reaching up from her neck. Richard had a nearly overwhelming desire to kiss her again. But he needed to watch this. So, he gripped himself and pressed his tip at her entrance. Slowly, he sheathed himself inside of her, inch by inch. Mary's mouth fell open, and to his astonishment, he felt a sound rising up in him as well.

As thunder roared outside, a lightning bolt striking overhead, he slammed into her the rest of the way, and they both cried out in shock and delight. Richard was in a tight glove of heat and wetness. Desire, now coupled with base traces of pleasure, was shooting through him. He nearly lost control of himself and hammered into her, but he held on at the last moment and instead gave a few experimental thrusts. She gave way just a bit, her body slowly opening up to him. Good lord, how could anyone be this tight?

Mary was breathing heavily, and he watched the passing emotions in her eyes, knowing he was giving a similar display. Deep-rooted arousal, alarm and an almost incapacitating need for more. "Richard, I swear to God, if you don't start fucking me, I'm going to fuck _you."_ Astounded by her coarse language, Richard was catapulted into action. After all, he couldn't very well have her take over. No, no. Not this time.

As the storm raged on outside, he rutted her deep. Richard slammed himself into her, their cries barely washed out by the thunder. A desperate rhythm began, a race that had long been started, but only now saw the finishing line coming near. His desk rocked at his furious movements, the drawers rolling open and closed. A few rather violent thrusts made the desk move entirely, and he had to quickly step forward or else risk being dislodged from her core. And that was something Richard could not abide. She felt far too incredible to ever quickly be rid of. Her walls were pulsing hard around him, hugging him into her, as if she did not want to release him from her soaking depths.

Her hands eventually left the desk and wrapped themselves around his shoulders, grasping him to her. Richard allowed this, but only because he needed the added security, or else he might be forced from within her. "Richard!" she panted against his ear, her face buried in his neck. Their bodies pressed flush against one another, separated by their clothes. "Y-Yes, more!" she cried out.

Of course. Leave it to Mary to always crave more. Richard rested his cheek against the side of her head and lost himself in her and all that was her. Her body trembled with each thrust, and he could feel her pulsing faster. She was close. Well then . . . Richard squished his hand between their clasped bodies and pressed two of his fingers against her clit, which was throbbing and soaked. Mary released a shrill cry as he rubbed her firmly there. Her body seemed to lose control then, as she bucked against him. "OH! RICHARD! OH YES!"

A sudden tightening around him, as well as an increasing wetness, signaled that she had come. Her thighs were twitching on either side of him. Mary was moaning deliriously, limp against him as she rode down her orgasm. Richard sought his own release then. Faster, faster, his hips moved, slamming into her. Her core milked him, urged him to give up his seed. Richard was panting harder, his body hot. The fog in his mind was expanding. His legs tightened, muscles starting to clench, and he was building . . . building . . . it was too intense . . . fuck, it was so intense. "M-Mary!" he cried out, a trace of fear in his voice, and then he was releasing in a rush of color and sound and thunder and lightning and death and life and sweet, sweet pleasure and relief.

His seed gushed deep inside of her, a few drops escaping to hit the floor. Richard thrust a few more times to ensure he was complete, then moaned softly and rested his forehead against her shoulder. That Mary had not yet removed her arms from around him touched him deeply. _'Betrayer,'_ his mind whispered to his heart. His arms remained locked around her waist, and they were still, breathing . . . feeling . . . shaking together.

When he finally lifted his head, parting from her, he met her gaze once more. He was frozen by the fire in her eyes. "We're going to your home," she informed him. "Now." Richard zipped himself up, smoothing his suit and hair out. Mary adjusted her dress, and she slid off of his desk. She carried herself with a different posture now. She looked . . . even more confident. This ran deep to her very essence. She carried with her a confidence most lacked—a comfort in one's own skin. It ran deeper than that as well, of course. Like a clogged fountain, Mary had discovered the addictive song of desire and lust after a rather violent cleansing.

And, for once, Richard was afraid that he might not withstand these flames. But he knew deep in his heart that being devoured by fire was exactly the way he wanted to go.


End file.
